


she goes down easy

by kingblake



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, LMAO, alcohol mention, i mean it mostly sticks with the canon except for the whole.. you know.. bellarke aspect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 10:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11011245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: Sober up, he tells himself.But then his hands find the curves of her hips and he smooths his fingertips over the jagged edges of her heart and he’s greeted with a mind-blurring wave of intemperance and he falls, falls back into her, landing in the bottom of the slippery glass bottle he’s created for himself.- or -Bellamy thinks he can take Clarke like a shot of vodka.





	she goes down easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwanheda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwanheda/gifts).



> hello thank u for reading!! i had this idea when i was in the shower and i felt inspired. sorry if it's a bit short???

Bellamy thinks he can take her like a shot of vodka. Hard, fast, warm, biting,  _ intoxicating _ ; a quick fix for a long-term problem. He knocks her back in small doses of bone-crushing hugs and longing gazes and shy smiles but for all her heat and exhilaration he can’t seem to get  _ enough _ . No matter how hard he tries, she’s always  _ there _ , his bottle of want never truly emptying. 

 

He’s beginning to wonder if maybe he’s taking too much of her, investing too much trust in the rocky shores of her consciousness. 

  
She opens herself up for him. Her tears fall like raindrops and soak his shirt and he holds her as close as he can, the beat of her heart as familiar to him as his own hands. She peels back the walls that surround her and he dips his fingers into her tar-soaked soul and scrapes out what he can, offering closure in soft kisses and whispered promises. He wants to let her go, to clean his hands and wipe the slate clean.

 

_ Sober up,  _ he tells himself. 

 

But then his hands find the curves of her hips and he smooths his fingertips over the jagged edges of her heart and he’s greeted with a mind-blurring wave of intemperance and he falls, falls back into  _ her _ , landing in the bottom of the slippery glass bottle he’s created for himself. 

 

Because Clarke goes down smooth, and despite all his leanings towards sobriety and self-resuscitations, he’s drawn to her like a moth to flame. 

 

And  _ God, _ he thinks, because she loosens his tongue and blurs his vision and makes his heart pound like a hammer within his ribs. 

 

_ God, _ he thinks, because maybe she’s more than a sedative, maybe she’s  _ more _ than a quick fix for a long-term problem. 

 

He’s addicted to her, addicted to the dips and valleys of her body and the feeling of her fingernails in his shoulderblades as they shudder past waves of elation as a single unit, drowning in the taste of each other. 

 

They tell him that withdrawal is the worst part. When he finds himself trapped on the Ark, he knows they’re right. He stands at the window facing the fire-washed earth and presses his fingertips against the cold glass, trying to find her heartbeat in the silence, trying to remember what it feels like to tuck his nose into the space between her shoulder and her neck. He longs for the sweet burn of his name on her tongue and the euphoric sighs he coaxes from her lips. 

 

Because she tastes like home, and peace, and everything that kickstarts his heart into motion.

 

She is the Helen to his Paris, because  _ damn  _ it, he would torch a city to the ground for one last taste, one last touch. Good men take up arms for Clarke Griffin and the answering roar of victory is almost enough to make him cry. Almost. As he spreads his palm against the window, exhausted and jittery and  _ scared _ , he imagines the rasp of her name in his throat and the sting of her hands in his hair. Because she’s just strong enough to keep him sane. Her voice trickles through the tiny transmitter on the Ark. It’s gritty, slow, and it scrubs him raw, but it keeps him warm. 

 

He falls asleep by the radio. She tells him about Madi and the butterflies and the names scraped into her rifle. She drags him like an undertow and he drops his head into his hands and prays, prays that he stays sober, just for a few days longer. Weeks, months, years pass.

 

But the window under his hands remains cold. The earth remains fiery. 

 

And then he hears her voice. 

 

“Nevermind,” she says, her voice grinding through the speaker on his desk. “I see you.”

 

_ It’s not me, _ he wants to scream at her, but she’s millions of miles away and he’s  _ trapped _ , and that glass between them suddenly seems thicker than an alcoholic man’s mental fog. 

 

His heart races into action and he finds Raven. He scrubs her down with his eyes.  _ Help me, _ he pleads with her, and she checks her stats, runs a diagnostics check.  _ Help me. _

 

It takes Raven a week. By then, he’s pulled into his own private withdrawal and his hands shake like rockets in re-entry and he’s cold and hot all at the same time, shoulders tight with worry. All he can think of as he shoves his head into a oxygen helmet is the gold grain of her hair and her moonshine eyes. All he can think of as the heat of the Earth’s new atmosphere knocks him unconscious is the taste of well-aged wine and how maybe, just  _ maybe _ , sobriety isn’t such a good thing. 

 

When he cranks open the hatch to the spacecraft his hands steady themselves and he barely registers the sting of wind and the smell of smoke and new life because he  _ sees  _ her, with her moonshine eyes and her gold grain hair and he’s  _ running, _ tripping over himself. He crashes into her, a wave of anger and sadness and love and heat searing through him.

 

He feels his heart begin to  _ beat _ again, and he drinks her up. She tastes sweet, a daquiri of love and pain and absolute, unfiltered longing. Her hands slip into his hair and she has dirt under her fingernails and he has blood on his chest but the ecstasy that cloaks her fingertips is leaking into him, touch by touch, and soon she’s straddling his hips and his arms are squeezed around her middle and he’s  _ holding _ her, with everything he has and everything he could be. 

 

He drops kisses down her neck, across her cheeks, dusting her eyelids and her ears and her jaw with his lips. 

 

A kiss.  _ I’m sorry. _

 

Another.  _ I left you behind. _

 

And another.  _ Please forgive me. _

 

His mouth finds hers.  _ I love you. _

 

And for once, he’s drunk on her, tipsy with relief. Clarke Griffin goes down smooth. She tightens her fingers around his biceps. 

 

_ I love you, too, _ she sighs against his mouth, and she tastes suspiciously like home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading omg!!! i love writing stuff like this? bellamy is my baby son ????? anyway, drop some kudos or some comments (they really do mean a lot to me) and catch me on twitter @kingbiake !!


End file.
